Djoser was a man of few words. It was not a chosen thing — he could have been the most popular demon in the Kingdom of Jahnes, much like his golden-eyed friend who he firmly tried to dislike. Djoser did have an… intimidating presence. Not many people found him approachable, either due to the scar across his left eye, his imposing height that made doorframes nervous or his dangerous sarcasm that just about toed the line between impolite and downright disrespectful. And being the only son of the immortal King of Hell, Djoser had many issues with making friends — Sipho was a special case, and Djoser believed that Sipho had never heard of the word ‘survival‘.

  No one knew Djoser was a damned soul.

  The difference between a demon and a damned soul was profound and multifaceted. A demon was pure-blooded, born of the very essence of Hell itself, and thus possessed inherent magical powers that set them apart from all other beings. These powers included the ability to manipulate fundamental forces such as time and space, to bend objects to their will, and, most notably, to inflict pain and suffering with terrifying precision. Their physical forms reflected their otherworldly nature: demons often bore skin in shades of dull red or deep blue, marked by grotesque features such as multiple eyes that seemed to watch from every angle, twisted horns curling from their heads, jagged teeth that could rend flesh, and extra limbs that moved with almost sentient thought.

  Damned souls, in stark contrast, were not born of Hell but were once human. They were condemned to Hell as punishment for their earthly transgressions, cast into a realm of eternal torment not by choice but by fate. Unlike demons, they lacked innate magical abilities and were stripped of their former humanity in the most harrowing ways. These souls were thrust into the infernal society of Hell, forced to endure endless cycles of suffering and humiliation. Damned souls looked like humans too, and vastly outnumbered the demons in Hell.

  Djoser had no idea what he had done in his lifetime to get sent down here. The memories of his past life were shrouded in an impenetrable fog, leaving him grasping at fragments that made little sense. He was only the son of the King because his father and mother had apparently been in love (a notion he found baffling and somewhat foolish), had a child (yet another questionable decision in his eyes), and then parted ways, leaving him to navigate a world he barely understood.

  His recollections of his mother were faint at best—more like echoes than concrete memories. He couldn’t recall how he had arrived in Jahnes, the infernal kingdom where he now resided. There was no grand arrival, no dramatic fall from grace; he had simply… woken up in the King’s palace, surrounded by opulence and shadows alike. From that moment, he had taken to living there, adopting the role expected of him. Acting like a prince.

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  Acting.

  Smoking had always been one of Djoser’s favourite habits. He held the power, even for a few minutes, on what he put into his system. Every breath was his own, and he didn’t need attendants to tell him he was poisoning himself, didn’t need anyone lecturing him on how he’ll look in the next twenty years. Djoser’s appearance had never changed for the past 300 — perhaps 400? — years. Getting yellow teeth or lung disease was so human. And as Djoser put the cigarette to his lips, he felt a profound sense of peace wash over him, like he was standing under a waterfall.

  A group of laughing souls spilled out of the tavern, their raucous voices echoing through the dimly lit street. Djoser remained motionless, leaning against the cold stone wall beside the door, his sharp eyes tracking every patron who stumbled in and out. The faint scent of smoke and stale ale mingled with the night air, but he barely noticed. His invisibility potion, a fragile shield against unwanted attention, was set to fade in less than an hour—a ticking clock reminding him that his time in this shadowed corner was limited. The thought of the long, winding walk back to the castle was a tedious task to even think about, so he pushed himself off the wall, stretching in a way that made his biceps flex, and began the walk (or trudge) back to—

  “My Prince!” a sharp, high-pitched voice pierced the shadows, slicing through the night air. Djoser barely suppressed a groan as Lysona—his self-declared arch-nemesis, much to Sipho’s amusement—emerged from the bustling market. As a pure-blooded demon, she possessed the rare ability to see through his invisibility spells as if they were nothing more than fragile glass. Most demons avoided these parts of town, deeming them beneath their lofty status, a place reserved for the “commoners”, better known as damned souls.

  “Lysona. What a pleasant surprise,” Djoser intoned in his usual monotone, though his lack of enthusiasm did nothing to deter her. Her skirts swished with every confident step as she seized his muscular arm in a grip delicate yet unyielding. Djoser fought the urge to flick her away; he was fairly certain she’d stumble over a stray leaf and collapse if he did.

  “What are you doing here? These parts of town are so…” She wrinkled her nose in what she believed was a look of disdain, but to any observer, it resembled the expression of someone sucker-punched in the gut. “…disgusting. Why don’t you walk me home, hmm?”

  “No thanks,” Djoser growled, jerking his arm free from her vice-like grasp.

  “Come on!” she pouted. “I promise to make it worth your—”

  “No.” The word snapped from Djoser’s lips sharper than intended, and he immediately regretted it as Lysona froze, her pale blue eyes narrowing to icy blades.

  “Prince Djoser.“ Lysona hissed. “I tried to be nice. I tried to be helpful. But, as you know, the Winter Ball is coming up soon, and you only have two options for a date: your insufferable friend Sipho, or me. And I’m sure Sipho would hate to go with you as much as you’d hate to go with him.“

  Djoser knew she was right.

  Knew his father was going to kill him, or worse, put him in Eternal Torment for the rest of his miserable days if he didn't live up to the family name.

  Knew he really didn't have any other choice.